


The Foreground

by fits_in_frames



Category: Greater Boston (Podcast)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: Charlotte makes a speech. Pre-series.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juunkets (recklessfishes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recklessfishes/gifts).



> This is my Secret Santa Summer Hell 2016 gift! I tried to keep it in the style of the podcast, doing a little vignette narrated by one person. Originally posted on Tumblr, I am finally archiving it here.

There were many requirements for a wedding Charlotte was unaware of until she actually started planning one. If it was up to her, they would forgo the dresses and place cards and sterling silver cutlery and favors and coordination of napkins and flowers and makeup, and just elope instead. But when she suggested that, Gemma actually started to look a bit ill. “My mother will kill me,” Gemma had whispered, and Charlotte had immediately dropped the subject.

And so, even though neither Charlotte nor Gemma really wanted an engagement party, Gemma’s mother had insisted on it. _I’ve been planning this since Gemma was a little girl_ , is what she had said. _It has absolutely nothing to do with you_ , is what Charlotte had heard. Fortunately, this meant that her mother volunteered to do most of the work. Unfortunately, she still ran every decision by the two of them before finalizing it.

Charlotte had picked a random restaurant (a “fusion” place, whatever that meant, in Somerville) out of a list after Gemma, sick of maternal prodding for the invite list and decorations and time of day, had both literally and figuratively thrown her hands in the air. The location wasn’t important. The name wasn’t important. The food wasn’t important. Helping Gemma relax for five minutes during the arduous process of wedding planning was important.

As if all of that wasn’t enough, they were expected to give speeches at the party--which is something Charlotte didn’t find out until two days before when she woke up at 2am to Gemma, next to her in bed, nervously tapping away on her laptop.

“Deadline?” Charlotte had said sleepily, assuming she was working on an article for work.

“How’s yours coming?” Gemma had responded without looking up. When Charlotte didn’t answer, she looked over and whispered, “Oh, shit.”

So after a few unsuccessful attempts at putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard over the next 48 hours, Charlotte decided that writing out her speech was a bad idea. She was going to improvise. It wasn’t the best decision, she knew that, but it was the one she was going to make. On the night before the party, while Gemma was sleeping fitfully and snoring quietly, Charlotte used the time not to write, but toss her studio looking for something, like a burglar in her own apartment.

When they arrived at the restaurant at 1pm, almost everyone was already there. Immediate family and a few close friends (more of Gemma’s than of Charlotte’s) stood up and clapped for the slightly exhausted couple, who both smiled politely, and sat in their seats--covered in flowers and ribbons--at the head of a long table.

After lunch was served, Gemma’s mother looked expectantly at both of them before tapping purposefully on her wine glass with a knife. Gemma cleared her throat and started to stand up. Charlotte drained her own glass and gently squeezed Gemma’s knee under the table. With a relieved smile, Gemma sat down again (as her mother raised her eyebrows but said nothing). Charlotte stood up instead, hoisted her bag up onto her chair, and pulled out an old sketchbook. She opened it to a specific page, scanned it briefly, and laid it on the table between her and her fiancée. She thanked everybody for coming, took a deep breath, and started to speak.

“I met Gemma on a train platform. I had just started my job at the studio so it was a new commute for me. And since it’s my job to make backgrounds, I observed. There was a mother with three children of varying levels of well-behaved. A man pulling an overstuffed suitcase behind him. A serious-looking businesswoman with a coffee cup in one hand and a briefcase in the other. A busker playing an instrument that looked like a gourd and sounded like an upset monkey. And, off to the side, a guy who was definitely checking her out.

“I saw him before I saw her, actually. He was glancing up from his newspaper, but not in the normal way one does when they’re waiting for a train. He was looking at someone. I followed his eyeline and found this woman at the end. She had that look of a person who had made the same trip more times than they could fathom the first time they took it. Not tired or resigned like you would expect, just automatic. Almost robotic. So much so that she didn’t even notice the people around her. She was just sighing after looking at her watch for what might have been the seventh time or the seventieth time. She didn’t see him, and she didn’t know that when the platform cleared out after a train on the opposite track pulled out of the station, he had started to walk towards her. I saw him, though. He zeroed in on her like a laser beam. And he asked her a question. I wasn’t close enough to hear but I knew it was a question by the way he looked at her. She just smiled at him politely but didn’t answer. So he asked again. She replied with one, maybe two words. That wasn’t good enough, I guess, because he asked again, this time touching her arm. That was when I realized I was walking over. I had no idea what I was going to do once I got there, but I was walking.

“When I finally got there, I stood in between them and made up some story. I think I said we had met at a conference or something. I think I called her Susan. Whatever it was I said, she got it almost immediately. The woman code, you know. I had her back even though I didn’t know her because we both didn’t like this guy’s attitude. She agreed, we met at a conference, she called me Beth, it was so good to see me again. And it worked, the guy backed off, probably sulked away somewhere. I didn’t notice because I was thinking how cute she was. Not that I was going to do anything about it because I had just spared this cute girl from an awkward commute and I wasn’t about to make it weird again. She thanked me once he was out of earshot and we started talking as ourselves. Basic introduction stuff, you know, names, jobs, how dismal the male population could be. And I found out she was a regular person. Not some nameless automaton, but an actual person.”

A few of Gemma’s relatives chuckled and Gemma chuckled nervously along with them. Charlotte decided to move on.

“I actually missed my stop that day. She was getting off two stops after mine and I stayed on the train on purpose, just because I liked talking to her.”

“Now, you’re probably wondering how I remember all of this. Well, after she got off the train, after I got off at the next stop and switched to an inbound train, I got out my sketchbook--” she picked up the book on the table that Gemma hadn’t taken her hand off of for several minutes “--this sketchbook, in fact, and drew everything, everyone, I could remember. Not because it was particularly interesting, not because I wanted to remember, not even because I had just met the person who would become the love of my life. Just because I had just gotten a job working on backgrounds, and I wanted to practice noticing the details.”

She paused and looked at her future wife, who was watching her with a small, but genuine, smile on her face, and a tiny shimmer in her eyes. She smiled back.

“I did, however, dedicate an entire page to the foreground: that cute girl.” She held up the book and showed everyone the chosen page. “It’s not a perfect likeness, but it’s how she looked to me during that conversation. Pretty, kind, not a robot at all.”

Gemma touched her empty hand and she curled her fingers in response.

“Anyway, I saw her the next day and the next one and the next one, and we, you know, struck up a train friendship. And I did finally tell her after a couple of weeks that my stop was before hers.”

Another ripple of laughter, less uncomfortable than the previous one. Gemma stayed quiet.

She was about to continue with _and the rest, as they say, is history_ , but then that she noticed the waitstaff in the back of the room, holding dessert plates patiently. “And now I think it’s time for cake!” she said instead.

Gemma’s mother twisted around to see the servers and turned back with a slightly sour expression, realizing her daughter wouldn’t be giving a speech. Charlotte just smiled warmly, and felt Gemma relax next to her.


End file.
